All Is Fair in Love and War
by ThisCouldTheoreticallyBeSparta
Summary: A collection of drabbles, ficlets and drablets about the nations of the world. Various pairings
1. Indulgence

ALL IS FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR

Author: Pixie-Rings

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: various pairings

Genre: various genres

Rating: various ratings

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Warning: political unhappiness

Summary: a collection of drabbles, ficlets and drablets about the nations of the world.

A/n: There will (hopefully) be many different genres shoved into this collection – romance, angst, fluff, humour, but the vast majority will be based on political events and most of all the Second World War. Some genres may overlap. Please review.

INDULGENCE

Words: 120

Character/s: Germany

Genre: angst, romance

Setting: WWII

Germany was convinced of one thing: he was far too indulgent with Italy.

Too indulgent when the shorter Italian nation decided to go mad and make ten pots of pasta, leaving them around. Too indulgent when Italy would drag him outside to go for a walk, a drive, a picnic, or whatever else the naïve nation thought of. Too indulgent when Japan's cat had had kittens, and he had allowed Italy to have one, and Italy had called it Bavaria. Too indulgent when Italy touched him, and hugged him, and kissed him and did things that were unspeakable in the name of the Reich to him.

Too indulgent whenever he heard Italy calling his name, because he couldn't resist it.


	2. Never Say Die

**NEVER SAY DIE**

Word count: 247

Character/s: England, Winston Churchill

Genre: angst

Setting: WWII, the Blitz

The old man steps down from his podium. England is moved. To hear his boss speak of defending him to the last man standing is nothing short of heart-stopping.

"A stirring oration, sir," he says. Churchill looks at him, studies him. He knows exactly how England is feeling.

"They will fight for you, you know. Until the very last breath is choked from them. Loyal to the end."

England dips his head, nodding. He's trying to hide the welling tears. He misses Churchill's smile but the pat on the shoulder is strong comfort.

Once he is alone, he finally cries. He sobs into his bedcovers as he kneels. They are his people, they belong to him. They are in a corner of his mind, millions of souls, like lights, and whenever one goes out he knows what it means. He feels every airman blasted down, every sailor drowned, every soldier shot, every Londoner bombed. It weighs heavy when he cannot sleep. But they fight for him, bravest of people, and he fights savagely for them as well. He wipes his eyes. He has not cried like this since that rainy day... He ignores it.

He stands and opens his tape-protected windows, stares out on rubble-and-smoke London. Already they are trying to rebuild, stiff upper lip and British pig-headedness. Yes, they will fight for each other. Because they are England, they are him, every one of them, as much as he is himself. And England never says die.


	3. Alt For Norge

**ALT FOR NORGE**

Word count: 306

Character/s: Norway, England, King Haakon, Vidkun Quisling

Genre: angst

Setting: WWII, 1940

"You don't know how much this means to me, England," said Norway as the two nations stood a little apart from King Haakon and his entourage, weary and frustrated at having to leave their homeland in the hands of Germany's men. England smiled and patted the expressionless nation on the shoulder.

"It's the least I could do, Norway," he said. He turned and headed up the ramp, barking out an order or two as he did so. A lot had to be done, and fast, before they set sail.

Norway sighed when the King came to talk to him.

"Norway, you must stay," he said. "Our people need you."

Norway nodded. "I shall try my best," he said, clenching his fists. He'd make the Germans pay for this, most certainly.

King Haakon smiled and placed a hand on Norway's shoulder. "Good," he said. "I am putting my hopes in you."

Norway nodded sternly, his expression changing from its usual impassibility to one of determination.

"Give Quisling what for for me," the king ordered with a smile. Norway nodded again, even managing a smile.

"Certainly, your majesty," he replied.

Quisling the traitor scowled at Norway. "Just because you are the nation, does not mean you can disobey me!"

Norway stood, his palms slamming into the table, and his face twisted in wrath and loathing.

"You shall never be our leader, and you shall never be my chief," he snarled. "You are nothing but a detestable traitor, a liar, scum."

Quisling stood just as violently as Norway had, his fists clenched, furious.

"You dare defy me?" he demanded. Norway straightened and folded his arms.

"I will defy you with everything I have," he said. "Until the last of those loyal still stand, until I myself am destroyed."

And with that, he left, fully intent on keeping his promise.

Endnotes: The title, which means 'All for Norway', was King Haakon's motto.

It goes to show how synonymous the name Quisling is with traitor that MS Word recognises it.


	4. Cold for May

**COLD FOR MAY**

Word count: 360

Character/s: Germany, France, a French soldier

Genre: angst

Setting: WWII, 1940

Germany truly hated these sorts of things. He hated seeing the mangled, lifeless bodies of his people and anyone else's. He, like any other nation, could sense each one of them as they died, and it never got easier. Yet here they lay, cold, twisted, strewn across the French beach like so many discarded toys, being at peace in death in a way they could never be in life.

Germany sensed movement, and looked to its source. Someone still lived among this pile of corpses. He strode over and found a young French soldier, gasping for breath, his leg a bloody mess.

His eyes focused on Germany, widened, and he scrambled for a weapon, any weapon. His hand closed around a Luger that belonged to the German officer who lay lifeless beside him and aimed it at Germany. His hand shook violently, but at such a close range as this, it wouldn't miss.

"That won't work on me," Germany murmured, not even taking his hands from the pockets of his greatcoat. The Frenchman swallowed and gritted his teeth. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, leaving streaks in the dirt and blood caked on his face.

"_D-don't come any closer, bâtard!_" he said, his voice shrill with youth and fear. Germany could read the terror in his brown eyes. He opened his mouth to speak when someone yelled.

"Don't touch him, _Allemagne_!"

France stood in front of him, his uniform much dirtier and more blood-spattered than Germany's. He stood in front of his soldier, arms out, protective and determined. They stayed still for a long moment, blue eyes locked, one standing tall and one crouching defiant. Germany sighed.

"Take him, before someone else finds him," he said. "Go."

France straightened, his shoulders and back still horribly tense, and nothing like how France usually was.

"_Merci, Allemagne_," he murmured. He gathered his soldier up, draping the man's (boy's, he was no more than a boy) arm over his back and slowly but purposefully leading him away.

Germany watched them go, his greatcoat whipping in the salty wind, the smarting stench of death in his nostrils. It was cold for May.


	5. Adéle

**Adèle**

Word count: 413

Character/s: France, a French soldier

Genre: angst

Setting: WWII, 1940

France's shoulders were stiff and rigid as he tried to stand the feeling of his people dying. His eyes scanned the field where the dead lay strewn, and he began to walk across it.

"Please, please…"

He turned at the sound of the voice and his eyes meet the form of a young man. The front of his uniform was soaked red, making the blue purple.

He reached a twitching hand out as far as he could, staring at France with glazed eyes.

"Please, _un peu d'eau_…"

France nodded and knelt beside the boy, resting his head on his knees. He unscrewed his flask and raised the boy's head. The young man drank slowly, most of the liquid trickling from the sides of his mouth onto France's trousers, pausing often to drag air into his uncooperative lungs.

"_Ecoute-moi, mon ami_…" he croaked once he'd drunk his fill. "Adèle…"

He broke off into a fit of coughing, spitting up what little blood hadn't already made its way through the hole in his stomach. France waited patiently, murmuring calming words.

"_Adèle… Ma Adèle…_" The young man coughed again, the shine in his eyes lessening. France could feel the light that belonged to this man fading from bright as any star to dim, almost out.

"_Oui_, tell me about Adèle," France urged, squeezing the boy's shoulders offering what little comfort he could. The boy smiled.

"She is so beautiful. She gets dimples when she laughs, and her hair smells like strawberries, and her bread is the best in the village…"

The boy, with the last amazing bout of strength that was characteristic of so many deaths, grabbed the sleeve of France's uniform and stared into his eyes with the desperation of the doomed.

"Tell… Tell Adèle I love her," he begged. France didn't even know who this boy was or where he came from, let alone who Adèle was, but he nodded anyway.

"Yes, yes, I'll tell her," he replied, soothing the boy through his last moments of agony with quiet murmurs and strokes to his forehead.

"_Adèle, ma Adèle_…" he would whimper, his breath becoming shallower and his voice little more than a cracked breath. When finally relaxed in France's arms, the nation took in a shuddering breath and resisted the urge to cry. If he cried for every one of them, he would never stop. He lay the boy down gently and stood, dusting his uniform down and setting off across the field again.


	6. When All Are Gone Away

**WHEN ALL ARE GONE AWAY**

Words: 402

Character/s: Russia, Mikhail Gorbachev

Genre: angst

Setting: late 1991

"Why are you doing this, Mikhail?" Russia asks, his hands clasped in front of him. He is much taller than Gorbachev, much more imposing, but now he looks so small, so weak and like a little, lost child.

"Why are you letting them all leave me?" Russia demands, his voice begging. Gorbachev sighs and looks at his nation, with the tears in the corners of his unfathomable eyes.

"Times are changing, Russia, we cannot go on as we used to. It is best for all of us," he says soothingly. Russia lashes out at the wall, leaving an indent several centimetres deep in the brick and plaster. His face is shadowed with defiance and misunderstanding.

"I cannot let them go, Mikhail," he says, now wringing his hands in front of him, once again a lost boy; such a change from the dark, twisted sadist sleeping within his confines. "They cannot live without me!" he protests weakly. Gorbachev shakes his head.

"They did before, Russia, and they can again…"

"Why did you let Prussia go? Why did you let the wall that kept him with me fall?" Russia pleads, his voice rising. "Why do you want to let them leave me again?"

Gorbachev knows he will get nowhere with Russia, not today, not ever. He will never understand why he has to let them go.

"We never listen to America! Why are we listening to him?"

Russia grabs Gorbachev's collar, and the man sees the madness and the fear of loneliness in Russia's eyes. Suddenly, Russia seems to understand what he is doing and lets go. He steps back, sniffing.

"First, Finland returned to Sweden's side. Then China left me. I did love China; I wanted the best for him," he clenches his fist at his side. "Now Prussia has gone back to his brother, and all the others are returning to themselves… I know Poland laughs at me, taking sweet Lithuania back. Even my dearest sister Ukraine does not want to be with me…"

Russia is crying openly now, and Gorbachev actually hurts for his nation.

"Russia, it will be all right," he says. "The whole world wants this…"

"I have never cared about the whole world," Russia says coldly. Gorbachev shakes his head again.

"It is for the best, Russia. You'll see it one day, I promise."

Russia says nothing and Mikhail Gorbachev walks away, leaving the lost nation behind him.

Note: when Russia says 'Finland returned to Sweden's side', he means it in a purely human and non-political way. Of, course, technically Finland _did_ return to Sweden's side, as Finland is right beside Sweden… *shrugs*


	7. What Are We Fighting for?

**WHAT ARE WE FIGHTING FOR?**

Words: 161

Character/s: America, Country Joe and the Fish

Genre: angst

Setting: Woodstock, 1969

"_One, two, three,_

_What are we fightin' for?_

_Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,_

_Next stop is Vietnam!"_

And he'd come home to this? Oh god, these people despised him. He tried so damn hard to make the world a better place for everyone. He tried so fucking hard to be a hero to not only the other nations, but the whole world, every single person.

And yet, these people saw through everything he did. They didn't see the justification of the violence, nor what it meant. They just saw the strafing, the napalm, the fires.

"_Five, six, seven,_

_Open up the Pearly Gates!_

_Well there's no time to wonder why,_

_We're all gonna die!"_

And he fell to his knees, ignoring the singing and the beating of the ground under his joints, throbbing through his marrow. This was what they believed. He knew it was the truth: this mindless massacre his bosses perpetrated. And it made America cry.


	8. Ploughed with Salt

**PLOUGHED WITH SALT**

Words: 332

Character/s: Rome, Carthage, Scipio Aemilianus cameo

Genre: angst, character death

Setting: North Africa, 146 BC

.

"Now you see how futile even thinking of winning was?"

Carthage rolled over, coughing in the dust, his sword slipping from his fingers. His face was smudged with dirt, sweat and blood. He could feel his life slipping from him, and he knew this was the end. Carthage would no longer be. His tears made tracks in the filth on his face, falling onto the arid ground of his land that was to be no more.

Rome rolled him over with his foot, smirking cruelly as he shifted the weight of his gladius in his hand.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked. Carthage laughed weakly.

"You coward, Rome," he ground out, coughing again. "What could I have ever done to you? You come here, on your ships, and kick a man that's down! And you call yourself Greece's admirer?"

Rome's expression darkened, showing his intense hatred so vividly. With a snarl, he kicked Carthage's face, the ex-empire's teeth flying. Carthage coughed blood onto the ground, watching it, frothy with saliva, splatter in front of him.

"Coward, you coward…" he muttered harshly, levelling Rome with a stare that mirrored Rome's own loathing.

"Coward? I, a coward?" Rome laughed mockingly, and knelt down beside the other nation. "I am not the one grovelling in the dust, beaten, broken and defeated."

Carthage snorted. "One day, you will," he promised.

Rome tightened his grip on his weapon and plunged it into Carthage's chest with a roar of rage. Carthage's body jumped, and he screamed in pain, his limbs writhing and twitching.

"Furthermore, Carthage must be destroyed," Rome said coldly, twisting his sword just to hear his cries of agony. With a hideous suck Rome had heard countless times before, he removed his gladius from the other's body and flicked the blood onto the ground.

He left Carthage behind him, bleeding into the dust as his city burned to nothing, and returned to his ships. He cared not for Scipio Aemilianus's tears.


	9. You Should Have Stayed at Home Yesterday

**YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED AT HOME YESTERDAY**

Words: 314

Character/s: America, Japan

Genre: angst

Setting: Japan, 1945

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Up and down. Up and down.

The movement of Japan's chest is so shallow, America can barely see it. He has to truly strain his eyes to perceive Japan's breath, and it scares him almost as much as the candid bandages that cover every visible part of his… friend? Enemy? America has no idea how to define him now. All he can do was sit on the chair in the corner of the hospital room, bent forward like a man with the world on his shoulders, his hands clasped tightly together and his head low. He sits there, his eyes fixed on the floor, listening to the almost inaudible breathing of the nation in the bed. The proud, inflexible yet ruthless nation that stayed awake long enough to sign surrender before fainting and not waking up.

He has been sitting there for the past two days. He's there when the nurses changed Japan's bandages, when they open the window to change the air and be rid of the stench of Japan's burnt flesh, when the doctor comes and checks on him. He can feel their accusatory and bewildered glances.

They know who he is, but they do not understand why he is here. Why he sits by Japan's bedside after what he has done to their nation, stripping his skin from him, burning him to shredded meat and rotten sores.

America leans back for the first time in hours, his back screaming from the movement, and sighs, deep and low and ever so weary. His fingers knitted together in front of his face, he stares, unseeingly, at the shadows lengthening through the room. There is no turning back from this. He has unleashed something horrendous on this world, something new and dangerous and terrifying. He is terrified himself. What if that raw, vicious power is used against him? Against _England_?

What has he created?


	10. Serious Business

**SERIOUS BUSINESS**

Words: 471

Character/s: Romano, Spain

Genre: humour, maybe crack

Setting: Post-Eurovision 2012

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Romano was on the warpath - which was decidedly out of character for him, being Italian and all. But nevertheless, he looked like someone was going to get their head bashed in with a spade, or flayed within an inch of their lives. He stormed through the hallways of the EU building in Brussels, exuding an almost visible, tangible aura of righteous anger. People wisely got well out of his way, flattening themselves against the walls and shielding themselves with folders of important documents.

There was also no doubt as to what this fury was all about.

Unceremoniously, he kicked the door of the main meeting room in and stomped inside. It banged against the door with a resounding slam. Everyone already in there whirled around in shock. Seeing Romano angry was a daily occurrence and didn't present much of a surprise. He was angry most of the time, and most of that anger was directed at Spain, of course. But they couldn't remember having seen him so adamantly, potently livid.

"YOU! YOU PIECE OF SPANISH SHIT!"

Spain cringed and tried to hide himself behind France. It didn't work, as France was quite good as making his escape himself and quickly ducked away, fleeing to the other side of the desk to take a seat next to England. This was going to be like a glorious trainwreck. You would not be able to tear your eyes from it.

"ONE POINT? _ONE FUCKING POINT_?"

Spain was visibly sweating, shrinking away from the pure wrath radiating from Romano. "_Q-querido_, I-I can explain…"

"YOU FUCKTARDED EXCUSE FOR A BULLFUCKER! I HOPE YOUR ECONOMY COLLAPSES AND YOU DIE HORRIBLE SLOW DEATH!"

"_M-mi amor_…"

"DON'T YOU '_MI AMOR_' ME, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

And, with a powerful right hook that was bound to turn itself into a spectacular, lavender-hued shiner, Romano punched Spain in the eye. He then turned and stormed off, yelling abuse in his own tongue. There was complete silence for a moment. No one moved, especially not the shocked Spanish nation sprawled on the floor.

Everyone jumped when Romano poked his head back around the door. "Thank you, Estonia and Croatia, it was very nice of you to give us seven points."

Estonia nodded mutely, offering a weak, ill-looking smile. Croatia offered a feeble wave. Then Romano was gone once more, and Spain heaved himself up, using the table as improvised support.

"Isn't that some form of domestic abuse?" France wondered, wincing at his Spain's windswept expression. Spain gingerly fingered his eyes and moaned in pain.

"That's going to be a nasty one," England said gleefully. Spain moaned again and staggered to his feet, hurrying out the door and after his "Romanito!"

"And here I was thinking that _we_ were the only ones that took the Eurovision Song Contest seriously," said Denmark with a grin.

.

Notes: I realised I'd never written anything humorous for this collection of stuff. Why? Why wouldn't I? so here ya go, something funny based on the fact Spain only awarded Italy one point in the Eurovision Song Contest this year.


	11. Two Faces

**TWO FACES**

Words: 358

Character/s: Russia, Japan

Genre: angst

Setting: 1906

.

"So what do you have to say for yourself, _Japon_?"

His voice had always been too soft, too lilting, and too childish, for such an immense empire. Japan said nothing, his face betraying no irritation at the sound of the spoon clinking upon the side of the china teacup. Jam in tea, such a barbaric nation.

"I heard you wanted to give Finland guns," Russia went on, placing his spoon on his saucer and raising it to his lips. His smile remained ever pleasant, ever friendly and ever vicious. His eyes remained curved in a frost-bitten smile. But Japan would be no less, for he also was the master of false pleasantries.

"Whether I have indeed done so is moot, _Roshiya-san_," he said mildly. Perhaps, to Russia, his voice too was at odds with his might and ferociousness.

"And what does your dear friend England have to say about all this?"

"_Igirisu-san_ and I do not speak of such things. We discuss the fact that you shall not have Manchuria or Korea, and this war shall end in my glory and your defeat."

The crack, while not loud, snapped through the heavy air like gunfire. Overly-sweet, dark tea dripped from white fingers, and a thickly-hewn face contorted in loathing. Japan did not flinch, although he trembled within.

As soon as it arrived, Russia's hatred was smoothed out into amicable antipathy once more. He placed his broken cup down, wiping his fingers on the napkin. Japan saw red mixed with deep, translucent brown.

"Very well. I shall tell my leaders this diplomacy tactic is futile," he said with feigned simplicity, standing and smoothing his light grey suit. He did not heed the flicker of red he had spread on his deep blue waistcoat. Japan stood also, bowing.

"And I shall tell my own the same," he replied. With no further pleasantries they departed, rigid and arrogant as all empires were. The sound of heavy Russian feet having faded, Japan wilted against the wall, breathing deeply. But no matter his fear of the other's insanity, he would be no less. For Russia was not the only once with two faces.


End file.
